


A Demonstration

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse of Power, F/M, flea bottom fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: <i>Petyr personally trains Jeyne Poole in how to please a man and disciplines her when her performance is not up to standard. Jeyne is very ashamed and upset at being turned into a whore.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Demonstration

“I trust you are well?”

It was a simple question, the type that generally meant the inquisitor did not truly care, was merely speaking to fill the air. But Petyr Baelish was never so simplistic, never spoke just to make someone else feel at ease. Every word, every question, was an effort to uncover something.

And it would be best if he were to uncover everything about the girl before him. 

She was pretty enough, he had to grant her that, though nothing in her visage held his eye for long. A common beauty, a girl with no deception behind her eyes, a loveliness he knew to be already well on the way to tarnish. 

It was not something he  _relished_. Petyr Baelish was many things but he was not mindlessly cruel. He would receive no pleasure from what would happen to this girl when she left his care. This was, of course, not to say that he  _cared_.

It had to be done. He had a promise he needed to see filled, a step to climb. If this girl’s total innocence was the price to pay for that, well she would surely not be the first.

“Yes, milord.” Her voice was a soft thing, one that matched her face and hands, one that indicated that she wanted nothing more than to sink into her surroundings, to hide herself away. Her gaze was directed to her wine glass though she did not drink, did not seem to register its existence. 

The weight of something  _expected_ hung about the air.

The room was perhaps the finest at the brothel, if only because it was untouched by customers. An enclosed space set aside for his own personal use, an enclave that he retreated to whenever he was required to show his presence here. Those times were growing further and further apart these days, but with her marriage on the horizon he felt the need to take a personal approach with the girl, to ensure that all was in place.

She had experienced something of the brothel life in her time here, that much was certain. But gossip was gossip and he needed to  _know_  all was as it should be. 

What he heard was that she had done little but observe. And that would not do at all. 

Petyr nibbled on a piece of cheese as he watched her over the expanse of a too-ornate table. Everything in this room seemed out of place, it all seemed  _too much_. Furs and silks and dark wood and gleaming gold, the colors of a peacock seen in every corner. The girl, in contrast, stood out remarkably—her common beauty stunning in the face of such opulence. It narrowed his focus, caused him to study her face with a level of detail that seemed to unnerve. 

She did not resemble Sansa, despite any roots they shared. He chose to be kind and not mention the other girl’s name, though it reverberated in his very bones. 

Petyr took a sip of his wine, noting once more that the girl had not touched hers in what seemed like ages.  _Well then. Might as well begin._

“And have you been a good pupil?” He spoke these words lightly, a clipped tone best suited for conversation, but there was nothing jovial in his meaning. Jeyne would know that, of course—Petyr had no doubts that she had been properly introduced to the language of the brothel. Though her eyes locked on his she said nothing, the question hanging in the room as thick as one of the tapestries that adorned the walls. 

“I see,” he continued, still in light tones. He set aside the remnants of his meal, settled back from the table, prepared himself with his gaze never leaving her face. “Perhaps I require a demonstration to be sure?” 

The girl’s mouth hung open, lips glistening in the candlelight. The maiden’s blush rose on her cheeks, a preposterous sight in such surroundings. The coloring, however, only added to her beauty, such manifestations of innocence affecting him in ways he did not truly expect. He shifted in his seat. Perhaps this would not be such a routine examination.

She spoke then, her voice a tremor. “They must have told you…I’m good.” The blush threatened to burn.

_I cannot bet on rumors of “good_.” With absent-minded fingers he stroked his beard, appraising her, hoping that she would know enough to close the distance between them herself. Surely she had been told the reason for this private audience? Perhaps she did not wish to know. He could understand that—despite the tightness growing low in his lean frame this was not a task that he anticipated.

But favors were favors. It would be exceedingly good to have a strong grip on the North. And it would not be the first time he had found a bit of flesh useful in the climb. 

When the girl made no move toward him Petyr extended his hand, fingers curled, beckoning. She moved swiftly, obediently, but with head downcast so as not to meet his eyes. 

Once she was within arms length of him he reached out to grab her wrist, fingers locked around with a tight grip. Jeyne winced slightly but followed as he pulled at her body, settling into a heap of skirts at his knee. Hand free, Petyr snaked it up her side and gripped her chin, forcing her gaze to his.

There were tears in the girl’s eyes ( _wrong color, but the name will be all that matters_ ). She did not let them spill, however, despite the fact that he could feel the shame burning through her. Perhaps she had learned a bit, though he knew well enough that Ramsay Bolton would not care if his bride sobbed. 

He dug his fingers into the girl’s flesh, pictured the scars he knew must cross her back. There would be none of that tonight—Petyr’s own touch tended to be softer, especially when he knew he had others that could accomplish that when the time came. Less gentle, less clean hands than his own. Perhaps this girl would come to appreciate these reprimands, after experiencing her new husband. 

“You will not go to his bed a maid.” He waited for some response but got nothing but a parted mouth, a furrowed brow, a sweetness dripping away before his eyes. He released her chin to brush fingers across her lips. Her mouth was not quite the same as Sansa’s, but it had a softness that he could very well imagine the other girl sharing. 

“This is a kindness,” he continued, his voice low. “I do not think you wish to enter your husband’s bed ill-experienced.”

“Please, milord…” Her voice was a tremor. Her words dried up there, as if she knew it was useless, as if she sensed nothing could change her plight. 

“You will get top-coin, of course. Maids always do.” He quieted the sob he felt starting in her body by gripping her chin tightly, bringing her eyes back to his. “But I hear you have learned how to use your mouth. That’s very good. That’s a skill.”

Releasing her he set about to work at his own laces, watching the girl’s eyes all the while. She seemed not to know where to look, focusing instead on her hands in her lap. He was far from hard, his fingers ghosting over his cock, enticing it with images of what he wanted. With his other hand he dug ringed fingers into a clothed shoulder, edged her along. 

“Perhaps you can show me?” His voice was soft, enticing, almost lost in the room. But she heard what she needed, and choking back a sob and a plea she pressed not-so-innocent lips to his head. 

Petyr threaded a hand through her hair, mussing the ornate style. He watched her neck for a moment, the smooth bobbing of her head. She had a trained mouth, that much was certain—none of the nipping of teeth you got from so many inexperienced girls—but it did little for him, not until he shifted his gaze aside, not until he pictured someone else.

Perhaps the girl was doing the same, picturing who she wanted. It would be good if she did. That in and of itself was a skill to learn, one that would suit her well in the Bolton bed.

It was not a tableau that he found himself in often, one of his whores buried between his legs, hardening cock in her mouth, but Petyr considered this a rather special circumstance. He had to judge the efforts of his staff.

At the moment he judged them to be fair. The girl was not exceptional but skilled, her lips stretching around the growing length of him, her mouth taking him deeper than he would have expected. His hand tightened in her hair, his body tightened in his chair. He struggled to keep his own response in check, but it was difficult with the fantasies his mind was constructing. That the girl was trembling under his grip only added to his lust, and he thrust into her mouth with too much force, sending her choking, reeling back.

She looked up at him with eyes that did not match the girl in his mind.

“Perhaps they did not train you well enough.” He pushed himself back into his breeches in haste, before gripping her arm and thrusting her against the table, pressing her front against the polished surface, moving swiftly to cover her mouth with a hand. Using the weight of his body to hold her still he gripped her skirts and pushed them to her waist, sliding down her smallclothes in order to expose her pale cheeks. Her face hidden, he appraised the sight. 

“Do you think your husband will react kindly to your  _choking_?” Without another word he raised his hand and brought it down hard, stinging across her arse, the smack of flesh sharp in the room. She sobbed into his hand, pressed herself further into the wood of the table.

Petyr felt the blood rush in his veins. He repeated the blows, delivering forceful smacks to her bottom, to this girl who was  _so very close_  to what he wanted, who could ruin it all with an ill-trained mouth. Her bottom reddened under his blows, her legs kicked out as broken words spilled from between his fingers. When he took a break to rest his hand he surveyed the damage. Her arse was now as red as her face, scarred by his rings. Tears wet his hand, but it was another slickness entirely that interested him. Pushing apart her legs he slid fingers along her lower lips to find her aching with need.

That gesture seemed to horrify Jeyne more than anything else he had done. She tried to kick herself away from him, but Petyr had locked her down. He slid the pads of his fingers along the wetness there, a smile clinging to his mouth.

“Well now.” His voice sounded oddly light in this room. Easily he slid a digit inside, fucked her gently with his finger, listened to the slick  _suck_  of her cunt. “Perhaps you are a well-trained whore.”

“ _No_ ,” was the broken sound that left her lips but she only grew wetter below, his finger sliding easily now. He was able to join it with another, curling them inside as she buried herself against the table in utter shame. His lips were slightly parted and his cock all but throbbed in the loosely tied leather of his breeches. Perhaps she would prove good enough, if she grew this wet under his blows. And with her face obscured he was free to picture a different room, a different voice. 

He pressed himself against her bare leg, searching for some relief of his own as he continued to thrust a hand into her cunt. He could fuck her here and now, against the table, his hand over her lips. He could spoil her and picture her as he wanted; he could use this girl as proxy. And perhaps he would—a few gentle fingerings and she could take his cock with ease. He could certainly think of less pleasing bed-partners. 

“Please,” she pleaded into the wood, and the sound of her voice shattered it all. It was not her. This was merely some common beauty, a girl of low birth who had not worked herself to status. A pawn and nothing more.

Petyr released her then, allowed her to crumple against the table before pulling her to her feet. Her dress fell, covering her bruised bottom, and Jeyne pulled at her smallclothes pathetically.

Their eyes met. Petyr slumped back into his chair, running one hand through his hair. The other, still coated in her wetness, fell to his side.

“You are dismissed.” He didn’t look at the girl as she left.

He took a shuttering breath as the door closed, then tore at his laces. His cock was rock hard and he took it with his slick hand, shutting his eyes, picturing a wave of auburn. 

 


End file.
